


Fermata

by Riza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Music, Violins, irene/sherlock if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:44:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riza/pseuds/Riza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the meme: "Sherlock tries to compose a song for John-- or, rather, I want him to sit down and try and just not be able to because there’s so much that John means to him and he can’t process it...So he just throws random notes down on the page, doesn’t even try and play it out, just brain-dumps all night...He doesn’t really have any clue what he’s come up with, but every note he scribbles down represents John, somehow, he knows that much...The second that he plays that song, the violin says 'I love you John’ more clearly than Sherlock’s voice ever could."</p><p>Written after Scandal and before Hounds. This is only my second fic for this fandom so bear with me. Hasn't been beta'd or Brit picked so all errors are my own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock doesn't really know why he's doing this. He's irritated beyond all measure at these feelings, these distracting thoughts and sensations that are making it impossible for him to get any work done. He knows John doesn't love him. John loves him, but not in the way Sherlock wants him to. And frankly, Sherlock isn't even sure if he loves him that way. But everything he has read and seen on the telly about love seems to point to that conclusion.

He's always been curious about love. He'd watched Mycroft fall in and out of relationships, both male and female. He had both scorned his brother, watching him lose his mind over whoever currently occupied his desires, and envied the security and bliss love had given him.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had never been able to stand human contact long enough to fall in love. Irene, however, changed that entirely. The only person he had ever met who challenged him, whose mind was evenly matched to his-- and a woman, no less. Her mind was amazing to behold, always a few steps ahead of Sherlock, constantly planning and changing and anticipating. He remembered realizing that that must have been how John felt all the time, and resolved to be more tolerant with him (a resolution that lasted approximately two days before Sherlock reached the end of his patience and gave up slowing down for John entirely).

But Irene was _dangerous_. Being with her was like playing with a loaded gun primed to go off at any second. Most people were so ridiculously easy to read just by looking at them, but it had shaken Sherlock to his very core when he realized that he saw her for the first time and realized that he knew absolutely nothing about her. He knew vaguely that her body was that which people would consider beautiful, “sexy”, but it held no appeal for him. She was sharp edges and pointy bits and no matter how cautious he was he would slice himself open on her.

John is a different story. Sherlock can't even remember what his life was like before he met John only six months ago. In those six months he has not touched a single needle. Even his patch use has gone down slightly. He finds himself able to think more easily with John in the room. John is his rock, a solid force that bears him up against the strain of the everyday world. John keeps him sane, keeps him balanced. He is everything that Irene isn't: comforting, dependable, reassuring.

Sherlock stares at the five bars that stretch across and down the sheets of paper. Why is he doing this? What in the world would he say if John walked into the room right now?

It doesn't matter. If he can make this work, if he can successfully transfer his thoughts to music, then these feelings will be gone, and his mind can go back to working in peace. He picks up a pencil, sets it down again, and picks it back up.

Carefully, with the utmost precision, he draws a treble clef on the left side of the bars, not realizing how hard he's pushing down until the tip of the pencil snaps off and goes flying across the room.

Sherlock snarls with frustration and stands up so violently that his chair tips over. He hurls the pencil across the room, where it bounces off the wall and falls to the floor. He kicks it to the side, ignoring the flash of pain from his toes, knowing that Mrs. Hudson is used to noises from the upstairs and won't notice the crash.

Fifteen minutes of hard thinking later, he comes to a conclusion that goes against every part of his enormous brain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of musical stuff in this chapter, but not as much as the next one, dohoho. More angst!

He rights the chair and sits down hard on it, steeples his fingers and rests his chin on them. Then he closes his eyes, and attempts to _stop thinking_.

It doesn't work, at first. His brain still goes at a hundred miles a minute, even without the extra input from his eyes. He can still _hear_ things, like the muffled yelling outside-- _probably drunk, just come back from a bar, a gay bar, all men, sex? No, just drinking and flirting_ \-- the creak of the floor downstairs-- _Mrs. Hudson, keeping the weight off of her right leg, hip must be paining her tonight, but she's taken her soother since she's walking around_ \-- but he tries to muffle it, at least for a little while.  
He's not used to sitting still for so long: normally whenever he is motionless, it's because he's in the process of trying to crack a particularly difficult clue, or categorizing the useful information inside his brain and deleting the irrelevant knowledge.

Eventually he gains a modicum of control over his brain. It's still moving, constantly inferencing and deducing and drawing conclusions, but it's more in the background now, and he's able to let his feelings float to the surface, unhindered.

What, precisely, does he feel for John Watson? It's some sort of love-- of that, Sherlock has no doubt. Is it a sexual love? It's possible. He's never had much of a sexual desire. His work posed enough of a challenge and gave him as much of a thrill as sex did-- though he didn't “get off” on it, as Donovan so crudely put it. Sex slowed him down, prevented him from getting things done, prevented things from _happening_ , and above all else Sherlock Holmes hated to be bored.

But there's definitely something there. Something not quite similar to what he felt with Irene-- that was a desire resulting from respect and fear, not from love and tenderness. But it stirs up the same sorts of feelings in him. Feelings that he didn't realize he was capable of until quite recently, feelings that have penetrated through his protective armor of arrogance and intelligence. He wants John to admire him _more_ than he already does. He wants a different sort of admiration-- he wants affection and desire. He wants John to be able to see him with his walls down, to see every single emotion he has ever felt for John.

Sherlock picks up the pencil and slowly, carefully lowers his emotional guard.

The first meeting, in Barts.

Key of A minor-- starting off pianissimo, quiet as a whisper, seeing John and knowing instantly that this was a man who was so much more than just a simple man. He was a soldier, a doctor, a healer, with steel at his core and a flawed strength that made him appear weaker than he really was-- slow build to mezzoforte, Sherlock, showing off his talent and watching John view him with open-mouthed admiration-- quick staccato notes of Sherlock's rapid-fire speech. John, refusing to admit that he had already subconsciously agreed to be Sherlock's flatmate-- back to piano, legato, and break, a series of repetitive notes as Sherlock anxiously awaited John's first visit to the flat.

He worked until the sun broke over the roofs of the buildings across from his flat, bathing his papers in pinkish light and reflecting off the wood of his violin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahaha if you thought the last chapter was bad, if you've never played a musical instrument you might want to keep Google open for this one. Or don't, it doesn't really matter, but if you know what the terms mean you might be able to get a better image of the music in your head.

The glare of the reflection snaps Sherlock out of his trance. He's been writing for the whole night without realizing it. The flow of notes stops. His hand aches vaguely, but he dismisses that. Instead he picks up his bow and begins to rosin it absently, thinking about how, or even if, John will hear this.

The problem resolves itself in the form of John ambling down the stairs, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and tying his robe around his waist. “Morning, Sherlock-- what on earth have you been doing all night?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, but John holds up a hand. “Never mind. I should know better than to ask that by now...tea?” He doesn't bother to wait for a reply. Instead, he makes for the kitchen and begins his usual morning routine.

Sherlock frowns, but somehow his hands have picked up the violin of their own accord and placed the bow on top of the strings, and he's playing, flawlessly, in spite of having only just finished composing a few minutes ago. He has no idea how this is happening: how could he be playing a piece from memory without having ever played it before? So he chalks it up to his prodigious brain exceeding expectations yet again and lets himself be carried away by the music.

He's barely even aware of what he's playing. His fingers shift position without him telling them to, hitting the notes in perfect sync with the notes on the page that he's not looking at. The bowings are precise and accurate-- not that he would expect any less from himself, but still, it is a rather unusual phenomenon, given that he usually discards the composer's marked bowings and replaces them with ones that he thinks work better.

He notes in the back of his mind John, who is no longer bothering with his tea and is instead watching him with the same sort of expression that he gets when Sherlock is deducing or being particularly clever.

He continues playing for the next seven minutes. It transports him back to all the times he's spent with John.

Slurred notes in a sixteen-note passage. Suddenly he's in the car with the cabbie, not thinking of anything else except the challenge in front of him, his mind racing and tripping over itself in its attempts to outwit the sad, wrinkled man in front of him. Six-eight time, chromatic one-octave scales sending shivers up his spine. Running for his life from the Black Lotus assassin in the museum, worrying about John, John, always _John_. Alternating demarcate and unmarked notes, forceful, fearful: the heart-stopping moment at the pool, of John in a thick parka. “This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?” Betrayal, anger, finding Moriarty for the first time. A silly little trill for Moriarty's theme, with an underlying tone of hatred. Escaping just in the nick of time, courtesy of the Bee Gees and Irene Adler. Warmth in the notes, now: John's good, John's fine, John's all fine.

Key change, questioning notes, mezzopiano. Meeting the woman. Unable to get a reading off of her. John looking at Irene in a not-good way, a bad way. Solid crescendo. _Shoot Doctor Watson first_. Vatican Cameos. A confident but slow two-octave scale as he realizes that he has the phone and is confident that he's won the game, again. Downward scale, ritardando: The woman attacks him, _gloats_ over him, leaves him on the floor to solve the case himself. Decresendo into the softest pianissmo as he sleeps, waking up humiliated and furious. John checking in on him. A rhythmic pulsing of eighth notes for the next twelve measures-- six months passing. Happy notes in spite of himself: seeing her again, cracking the code, anger and frustration building in the dynamics as he realizes that he's done precisely the wrong thing, beaten _again_. Legato, slowing down, chords creeping in as he begins to reassert himself, unlocking the phone. _She's in love with me_. Not knowing what to do, or why his body feels this way. Comforted by John's presence, the smell of tea, the jumpers, sitting quietly in the room together. John typing up a late night blog post. John trudging upstairs. John with his stupid girlfriends and his stupid work and his stupid everything, and Sherlock loves him.

Ending in a quiet decrescendo. A quivering A minor chord, and finally, held long and quiet, a G major chord, fading away into nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing that throws John off is that Sherlock is standing still. Normally in the mornings he's bouncing off the walls, eager to get up and get _going_ and why is John just standing there, doesn't he know there's things to do, observations to be made, cases to solve?! This is followed by a short sulk when John refuses to bolt immediately out the door with Sherlock and instead sits at the table nursing his morning cuppa and crunching a couple of pieces of toast. But now Sherlock is holding very still, watching John with a look of intense concentration-- the sort of look he gets when he's piecing together some item of critical importance. John has had that look turned upon him several times before, so he brushes it off as Sherlock being Sherlock and ambles towards the kitchen to put the kettle on.

The water's about to boil when he hears the familiar sound of the violin-- another unusual occurrence, although somewhat less unusual as Sherlock is not averse to picking up the violin at two in the morning and playing a sonata from memory in complete darkness.

But when he hears those first opening notes, some instinct tells him to turn the stove off and go into the living room.

It's as though some sort of psychic bond has opened up between the army doctor and the consulting detective. John wonders for a moment if it's not just the absence of his usual morning tea that's doing him in, and then he is swept away in the sound of the violin as Sherlock plays for him their life together. He can hear everything: the cabbie, the banker, the Golem, the Black Lotus gang, the consulting criminal, the woman. He stands as still as Sherlock, caught in a trance, like a deer in headlights.

It rushes by, all too quickly, and then the last chords fade away and John is still standing there, looking at Sherlock as he lowers the violin. He wants to speak, but he's so overwhelmed by emotions and memories that he can barely even focus. His mouth is dry, and he wets his lips.

“What in the name of God,” he whispers at last, “was _that_ all about?”

He instantly regrets his words as Sherlock's face crumples, just for a split second, before regaining its haughty composure. “Sherlock-- wait, I didn't mean it that way—I just, I don't understand. What just _happened_?”

“I composed a song,” Sherlock says, his voice devoid of of emotion. He carefully sets his bow down on the desk, keeping his violin gripped tightly in his other hand. “For you.”

“For-- for _me_?”

“Yes.” Sherlock pauses. “Did you like it?”

John can't think of a thing to say. Sherlock's mask falls away again, and he looks absolutely heartbroken, before he composes himself and fixes John with one of his familiar penetrating gazes. “You didn't like it. Fine. That's fine, it's good.” He turns away. “Just have to make it better next time, make it so that it's not so intense. Of course it was too intense, always too intense, always two steps ahead, moving too fast--” His hands come up to rake through his hair again and he begins to pace, running through deductions in his head to comfort himself.

 _Good job, John, now you've gone and gotten him all worked up_. Was his foot permanently attached to his mouth tonight? “You daft idiot, of course I liked it. It was brilliant, it was absolutely fantastic. I just don't understand why.”

“It was a necessary experiment,” Sherlock says tightly, still refusing to look at him.

“Necessary for what?”

Sherlock purses his lips and says nothing.

Something-- probably the aftereffects of the music-- moves John to go over and put a hand on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock flinches but doesn't pull away.

“Hey. Listen. That was beautiful. Seriously, it-- I can't even put into words what it made me feel.”

Sherlock has his eyes fixed determinedly on the skull across the room and seems to be wrestling with some internal struggle. John is beginning to get irritated. He is really not in the mood for Sherlock to get in one of his black moods and ruin John's calm right now, and he grabs the taller man by the shoulders and spins him around to face him.

Sherlock turns, grey eyes furious and hurt at the same time, and before John can stop himself, before either of them can react, John kisses him.

Sherlock is so surprised that he almost breaks the kiss right off the bat, but manages to stop himself and instead lets it grow into a passionate embrace of lips and teeth and tongues, before pausing for breath and to give his mind a chance to catch up. When it does, he's finally able to articulate what he's been trying to say ever since the music ended.

“John, I love you, I love you, I don't know how or why, I don't understand it at all, I just know that when you're with me I feel safe and happy and in love with you and I'm sorry--”

John is looking at him with an expression of incredulity. Finally he reaches up and puts a hand over Sherlock's mouth. When the flow of words stops, John says, “My God, you really are the most spectacularly ignorant moron I've ever met.”

Sherlock mumbles something under his hand.

“No, really. You are. You don't have to tell me this now, you idiot. I could hear all that in your music. You're in love with me and I'm in love with you and neither of us really understand how this happened but it did, so just shut up and kiss me or so help me God I'm going to gag you and drag you to the bedroom and show you exactly what I want to do with you right now.”

He removes his hand gingerly, and Sherlock promptly kisses him again, fiercely and with the same passion he normally reserves for a particularly interesting fridge experiment.

Finally they break apart. “The bedroom thing,” Sherlock says, in a voice deeper than John has ever heard it drop, and tinged with lust, “was that a promise?”

“Maybe,” John says, grinning up at him. “Have to save that for later, though. Right now I'm in the mood for right now, right here on this desk.”

Sherlock wastes no time in pushing everything off the desk, music and all. The papers go flying, and John catches a glimpse of the top one, with the title written on it in the characteristic flourish of Sherlock's handwriting.

 _Sonata for an Army Doctor._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end. Jesus, this took a while. Normally when I write I do what Sherlock does with his composing and just brain-dump it all at once but I actually stayed up late each night to write this because I write better at 3 am listening to silly music. I hope it was enjoyable and teeth rotting to read.


End file.
